KEEPING THE FLAMES
ALIVE

A review of 'Keepers of the Flame'
at the Live Theatre, Newcastle

There are many parallels between Sean O'Brien's
Keepers of the Flame and Marlowe's Dr. Faustus, and Sean O'Brien
does his best to emphasise them, somewhat to the detriment of his own play,
since it invites comparison. Keepers of the Flame is an ambitious and
intelligent piece, but it is not in the same theatrical league as Dr.
Faustus, and whilst Sean O'Brien, a respected poet, writes well - and in
blank verse - he never comes close to the instant memorability of Marlowe's
mighty lines. He forgets, in places, that his play is not being written to be
read, but to engage a theatre audience, and as a result it tends to be too
long-winded and undramatic, particularly in the first half, where too much time
is spent in setting up the plot rather than proceeding with it, even despite
cuts in the printed text. For instance, nineteen lines are spent describing a
long-ago journey, and whilst they are very poetic, and Alan Howard undeniably
speaks them beautifully, they nevertheless seem to me to be dramatically
redundant. However, it is to Mr. O'Brien's eternal credit that, whilst he may
not match Marlowe, he has not fallen into the trap of writing what is
essentially either a radio or television piece, so many of which bedevil the
current theatrical scene.

The play concerns Richard Jameson, an octogenarian
right-wing poet who has been suffering from writer's block for the past fifty
years. He is approached by an enthusiastic young academic, Rebecca Stone, with
a view to producing a new edition of his work, together with a biography. There
are, however, very few known facts for a potential biographer to work with.
Much of the rest of the play consists of flashback memories by Jameson, which
fill the biographical gaps and at the same time fill Rebecca Stone (and the
audience) with horror.

At Oxford, Jameson neglected to study Dr.
Faustus - at his peril. It is not long before he is heavily embroiled with
an extreme British Fascist party led by Sir Henry Exton, who is aided and
abetted by his frighteningly chilling henchman, Francis Finnegan, the
Mephistophilis of the piece. Jameson sells his soul to the right-wing, although
it is never entirely clear what he thinks he is getting in return, apart from a
certain amount of cash for writing marching songs instead of poetry. Despite
feeling some disillusion, and despite some largely ineffectual undercover
informing against Exton's mob, one feels that he must still be extraordinarily
blinkered and/or naïve not to realise how extreme the party is and to
extricate himself before it is too late to save his soul. In fairness even
Exton's left-wing daughter, Jane, later Jameson's wife, also seems misguidedly
to imagine that the party is more hot air than real action - once again to her
cost.

The second half of the play is more successful, since
the politics are shown in action rather than in words. Jameson ceases to be a
mere adjunct to the political exploits, and becomes horrifically involved, to
the extent of handing Finnegan the matches with which he immolates a
petrol-soaked victim. He alas does nothing so decisive to save Jane, murdered
not on the command of her father, but on the whim of his vicious new wife,
Stella, in cahoots with Finnegan.

All of this is dramatically only too believable, and
the parallel with present-day extreme right-wing parties is indeed a troubling
one. However, the implied murder of Rebecca Stone by far-right Thatcherite
supporters for knowing too much about events that took place fifty years
previously stretches the credulity, even given that one or two Royals could
have been involved. Indeed, the right-wing still providing a thuggish minder
for the elderly Jameson, loose cannon though he may be, seems equally
far-fetched, although perhaps in making these comments I am being as naïve
and blinkered as Jameson himself.

The play is ably directed by Max Roberts, the
Artistic Director of Live Theatre, and the designer, Imogen Cloët, makes
the most of the relatively limited resources at her disposal.

Alan Howard, an extremely memorable Marlovian
Mephistophilis back in 1970, now plays the Faustian figure of Richard Jameson.
It is a very long rôle, and he is onstage for most of the play,
commanding the piece throughout. He is the only member of the cast that really
handles the verse well, showing not just long experience, but also a natural
sensitivity towards its rhythms and its language, which the other actors are
incapable of equalling. He imbues the rôle with pain, grief, and
occasionally passion. The text just about bears it: Sean O'Brien is an
intelligent writer, but not an emotional one. Virtuoso as it is, it is not one
of Alan Howard's greatest performances, for no actor can really transcend the
material he is working with, and after Shakespeare, Sophocles, and even
Marlowe, precious few dramatists could offer him a scope that would justly
fulfil his talents. Nevertheless, it is a performance well worth seeing, and
one that more than does justice to the text, although, despite all of Alan
Howard's considerable skill and experience, Jameson remains a character with
whom it is difficult, if not impossible, to identify, and it may be that this
difficulty is why it is not easy to feel involved with the play as a whole, or
to warm to it. My main criticism of the performance is that there is not enough
differentiation between the older and the younger Jameson. It is possible that
this is intentional, the younger Jameson being only a memory of the older one,
and as such having more of the older one's qualities than would in fact have
been the case. But if this is the intention, then it is not altogether clear.

Alan Howard's casting in the rôle forces a
(probably unintended) comparison with Good, a play by C. P. Taylor (to
whose memory the Live Theatre is, by a quirk of fate, dedicated) in which Alan
Howard gave an award-winning performance as Halder, another character sucked
into a Fascist movement, in this case the Nazis. In many ways Good was better
theatre, and more involving, for Halder was a character with whom it was only
too easy to identify, and one emerged wondering if, in his position, one would
ever have acted any differently - a deeply disturbing idea. C. P. Taylor was
not a poet, but very much a man of the theatre, something which shows in the
dramatic effectiveness of his play. By all accounts, he was also much more
willing to rewrite during rehearsals than Sean O'Brien. A lesson to be learnt?

The rest of the cast lend admirable support. Caroline
Faber plays both Jane and Rebecca Stone, and nicely differentiates them; David
Rintoul shows manic megalomania as Exton; and above all Deka Walmsley makes the
blood run cold as the emissary from Hell, Francis Finnegan, who first tempts
Jameson away from his poetic muse, and at the end returns to claim his soul. It
is a shame, given such a splendid performance, that his final lines, which
close the play,

...................................You won't Be saved. But there is
immortality. That ought to keep the flames alive.

need to be given much more depth and ambiguity to
avoid the ending sounding weak. I suggest that he takes lessons from Alan
Howard.